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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24249919">I Love Lydia</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BobaMcFetty/pseuds/BobaMcFetty'>BobaMcFetty</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Beetlejuice (1988), Beetlejuice - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1950s, Angst, Beetlejuice Is Not Nice, Dark Beetlebabes, Dark fluff, Except for when he wants to be, F/M, Housewife Lydia, I Love Lucy but replace "Lucy" with "Pain and suffering", Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Keatlejuice - Freeform, Like she initiates but it is mega not good circumstances, Sexism, Stockholm Syndrome, motoon verse, movieverse, stepfordization, strong dubcon, yandere beetlejuice</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 21:16:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,585</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24249919</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BobaMcFetty/pseuds/BobaMcFetty</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Betelgeuse would never refer to himself as the domestic type, but there's something about seeing your wife in an apron that does something to a man.<br/>AKA This is a Beetlebabes Stepfordization fic with a fuck ton of feels.  Enjoy!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Beetlejuice &amp; Lydia Deetz, Beetlejuice/Lydia Deetz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>100</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I Love Lydia</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“No, it’s,” Betelgeuse never took himself for the domestic type, “Daddy, it’s really easy.”<br/>
But when Little Miss Lydia Deetz-Geuse-Whatever-Her-Last-Name-Is-Now is standing at the phone in their spotless kitchen, looking like a doll from her softly curled bob to the petticoat hidden beneath her conservative black dress, he can’t help but trace the seams along the back of her legs and count the stars that Curly had bad aim.<br/>
He has very few soft spots.  Lydia being the biggest one, of course.<br/>
Betelgeuse isn’t the nostalgic type.  When you’ve been around for close to a millennium, there’s just too many “good ole days” to keep track of.  But damn if he doesn’t have an appreciation for the 1950s. The decade of repressed squares desperate to hide their depravity behind a veneer of pastel and so damn easy to scare.  Peggy and Jim’s biggest fears might’ve been commies and integration, but their delicate sensibilities were easy enough to exploit.  Sometimes all it took was the slam of the door to have Betty Homemaker fainting.<br/>
Peggy and Betty.  Oh God the women back then.  Delicate.  Feminine.  Sexually repressed.  Societally perfect but absolute freaks.  And always, always home alone while the man was away.  They were so easy to exploit, only after playing coy, of course.  <i>Oh Mr. Beetleman, thank you for fixing our Fridgedaire.  Why, Mr. Beetleman!  Take your hand away from there right now!  If my husband found out-</i> They always gave in.  He’d have his fun then scare them off the property, leaving the shitty suburban dwelling to the Civil War soldiers that were there first.<br/>
They pretended to fight hard, but they always came harder.<br/>
Just like his girl.  It’s great that she comes crawling to him now, but he keeps the memory of their wedding night tucked away for rainy days.<br/>
“First you’re going to draw a door.  Barbara and Adam know all about that; we’d like for them to come, too.  But you’re going to write out the address on the door.”  Hey, he didn’t turn her into this.  When he damn near dragged her home he didn’t expect for her to start making him creepy-crawly Jello molds and wear flowy red peignoir sets to bed.  It was a gradual change, but still very, very weird.  Welcomed, but weird.<br/>
Betel knew Lydia was an old soul going in.  It was one of the things that drew him in.  She lamented Delia’s disregard for Victorian architecture.  She kept herself covered, going so far as to wear long skirts under her already modest school uniform (he wished she didn’t).  She collected vintage cameras.  He pilfered through her personal library during those blissful three months while the vanilla wafers were away (yes, he watched her sleep), and took note of everything from Poe to the complete works of Nabokov (this one gave him hope).  He just didn’t expect for her to hyper fixate like this.  He offered a helping hand along the way, sure, but for her to turn into a gothic nymphet Lucy Ricardo?<br/>
She gagged when he carried her kicking and scratching across the threshold.  Granted, the place was a mess, and he did feel a twinge of something close to embarrassment.  He liked her in a way he hadn’t liked a gal in over 600 years.  He wanted to make her happy for once, and he would.  But, yeah, overflowing ashtrays, beer bottles everywhere, and dilapidated furniture wasn’t a good way to start.  Lydia is tidy and clean and she keeps her film lined up neatly on her desk and he wanted to help her when she made her bed in the morning, if only to keep her from crying over another day of dealing with Claire Brewster.  A few days into their mini-honeymoon, she made his-<i>their</i>-bed.  Stiffly, sadly, simply for the sake of having something to do.  He stood awkwardly at the door, sipping coffee he didn’t make, watching her.  He didn’t help.<br/>
Then she was sweeping everything off of the tables and counters into a bin, which she roughly shoved into his arms with a snippy <i>get rid of this.</i>  He did.  Next came the floors, which she got down on her hands and knees to scrub.  As much as he loved staring at her ass, this wouldn’t do.  It felt weird gifting her a mop, but she seemed to like the striped apron he summoned to protect her new wardrobe, all accidentally sourced from the 40s, 50s, and early 60s.  Then she started wearing the lingerie she neglected in her personal drawer.  When did stockings and girdles become fetish gear?  And he couldn’t help but be mesmerized by that delicate, tell all point of her breasts.  “I wanted to try something different,” she said.  There’s something about looking at a woman and just knowing what’s hidden underneath.  Her clothes now fit properly.  She walked with a sudden grace.  She slipped into this mold like a glove.  He could hardly keep his head from spinning when she bent to dust a low shelf.<br/>
He throws stuff to the floor just so he can watch her pick it up.<br/>
She cooks for both of them now and fuck, she’s good at it and looks good doing, too.<br/>
One day, he came home and she was already at the door, helping him out of his coat and hat, hanging both up.  “I don’t want you throwing it over the couch for me to mess with.”<br/>
That night, he listened as she tentatively moved closer to him, only to press herself fully against his back.  He caught her hand before she could finish sliding her arm around his body.  His new Lyds whimpered and mewled in a new way.  When he pressed into her, she cried out, her small body too tight and still unused to him.  When she bit into his shoulder, it didn’t hurt.  He waited for her this time, lips pressed to her neck until she actually giggled and grabbed his face with her hands.  The great Betelgeuse, world’s leading bio-exorcist, eldritch horror, Ghost with the Most, the biggest thorn in Juno’s side, is putty in a little girl’s hands.  Lydia Deetz-Geuse-Whatever’s hands.  In her dark eyes, he sees that there is no new Lydia Deetz.  His Lydia from Connecticut is smart, funny, bright, sarcastic, girlish, inquisitive, strange and unusual.  And she’s smiling at him, running her thumb across the patch of moss by his mouth.<br/>
“Your face tickles.”  It doesn’t matter who initiated, all he knows is that he’s kissing her hard and slow, which reminds him that he painfully needs to move.  The first drag of skin against her walls steals a breath from her and a hurried little squeak, “I like you.”<br/>
“I love you.” Fuck.  It slips out before he can think.  Before she can comment, he kisses her again.<br/>
After, they stay up all night talking.  They pass a cigarette back and forth, watching the orange ember as it floats in the dark.  He notices that Lydia doesn’t inhale, just lets it sit before watching the smoke vanish into the dark.  She doesn’t mention his confession.<br/>
“Can I ask for something?”<br/>
“Anything, Babes.”  Drained physically and emotionally, he’s not sure what “making love” really is, but he’s pretty sure he just did it.<br/>
“At the wedding, you told my dad something,” she sucks in a breath, “That my family can visit.  I miss them.”<br/>
He chokes on his cigarette.  “Hell no!”<br/>
“You promised!”<br/>
“Babes,” he sits up to meet her, “I was kidding.  It was a part of the schtick.”<br/>
“Beej, I’ve spent so long fixing this place and I’m really proud of it.  They’re probably still freaking out.  I want them to see how happy I am.  Just a dinner party.  Please?”<br/>
“No.”  He can’t see why she still cares about those shmucks.  He’d bet money that they’d already moved on.  “They’d need passports, anyways.  Good luck getting one.”<br/>
Lydia clicks her tongue.  “Well, I was going to say I want to do… that again, but I kind of have a headache now.  Goodnight, Betelgeuse.”<br/>
“Fine.”<br/>
That leads us to the kitchen, where Betelgeuse is creeping up behind Lydia, pulling her against him until he can rest his chin on her head.  She shoots him an apologetic smile and rolls her eyes.<br/>
<i>“Lydia, honey, please tell us what’s going on!  Are you hurt?  What is he doing to you-“</i><br/>
He plucks the phone from her hands.<br/>
“I don’t know Chucky, why don’t you come over and find out.”  Betel hangs up the phone.  Lydia shoots him a look.<br/>
“Jerk.”  There’s no malice behind it.  He fixes the shoulder ruffle of her apron.<br/>
Oh, he can be domestic alright.  He can pick up his cute little housewife and lay her across the Formica table, fight through the layers of chiffon so he can run his hands up her stocking clad thighs.  Fully fashioned, real nylon that feels ungodly smooth against his skin and shines in the sun.  None of that stretchy shit, only the most glamorous for his Babes.  He can snap a garter and push her panties out of the way and cover her gasp with a kiss.  Who taught her how to remove a tie with one good yank?<br/>
“Hey,”<br/>
“Yeah?”<br/>
“I love you, I love you, I love you.”<br/>
She takes in his shocked confusion before rolling her eyes as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “Good things come in threes.”<br/>
He can get used to this.</p>
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